“He put a cigarette between his teeth, mumbled a quick “sorry” and lit it, his hands shaking slightly. He could never hold still when she was around. “Remember when you told me you’d stop smoking?” she asked, drawing her woolly scarf tighter around herself. Her breath clouded in front of her face just as he blew out the smoke through his nose. She watched him wearily. Of course he remembered. He remembered all of the things he’d said to her, drunk or sober, but this one he remembered the best. Because the night he told her he’d stop smoking was the night he’d wanted to kiss her for the first time. Her hair had smelled like strawberries and her lips had looked so incredibly soft and she’d said “I can’t stand the smell of smoke, you know”. But this time was over, this time of watching and wanting and aching for their hands to brush, for their lips to meet. He could’ve thrown the cigarette away, could’ve swept her into his arms to keep her warm but he’d ruined it. He hadn’t changed, he never would, and she was too good for him. Too damn good for him. He hoped she knew. So he kept his cigarette in his mouth as he said, “I don’t remember.””